The Bakery Sisters by Susan Mallery Read Free Book Online Page A

middle-aged man dressed entirely in white saw her and frowned. “Hey, you. Get out of here. The bakery opens at six.”
    She gave him her best smile. “Hi. I’m Claire Keyes. Nicole’s sister. I flew in because of her surgery. I’m helping out.”
    â€œSister? She doesn’t—” The man was small—a couple of inches shorter than her, but built like a bull. He drew his bushy eyebrows together. “You’re the one who plays the piano? The snooty one?”
    â€œI do play the piano,” Claire said, wondering what Nicole had been telling people about her. “I’m not really snooty. Nicole, um, asked me to come by to help, what with her being laid up and all.”
    The man frowned. “I don’t think so. She doesn’t like you.”
    Something she’d apparently shared with the entire world. Claire had felt guilty about lying, but she didn’t anymore. She was going to find a way to fit in and the bakery was the obvious place to start.
    â€œWe’ve come to an understanding,” she said, still forcing a smile. “There must be something I can do to help. I’m her sister. Baking is in my blood.”
    Or it should be. Claire had never tested the theory by actually baking anything.
    â€œLook, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. You need to leave.”
    The man walked away. She trailed after him. “I can help. I’m a hard worker and I’m really good with my hands. There has to be something. I’m not asking to work on the famous Keyes chocolate cake or anything.”
    The man spun back to face her. “You stay away from the chocolate cake, you hear me? Only Nicole and I do that. I’ve been here fifteen years and I know what I’m doing. Now get out of here.”
    â€œHey, Sid? Come here for a sec.”
    The voice calling came from behind a wall of ovens. Sid gave her a scowl, then hurried off in the direction of the voice. Claire used the alone time to explore the inner workings of a real bakery a little more. She smiled at a woman injecting yummy-looking filling into pastry shells. The woman ignored her. Claire kept moving.
    She found another woman working a machine that applied frosting to doughnuts. The smell was heavenly and Claire’s stomach began to grumble in anticipation. She took a step toward the machine and bumped into a man carrying something.
    As they struggled to get their balance, the bag he’d been carrying flew up in the air. Claire instinctively reached for it. But instead of catching it, she only bumped the side, sending it tumbling, sprinkling its contents on them, the floor and onto the already frosted doughnuts moving on the narrow conveyor belt. It spun and spun before landing, open end up, in a massive vat of dough.
    â€œWhat the hell did you do?” the man demanded, as he began to swear in a language she didn’t recognize.
    Sid came running. “You! You’re still here?”
    The woman managing the doughnuts flipped off the belt and hurried over to inspect them. “Salt,” she muttered. “It’s everywhere. They’re ruined.”
    Claire wished she could slink away. “I’m sorry,” she began. “We ran into each other and—”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to be here,” Sid yelled. “Did I tell you to leave? Did you listen? Jesus, no wonder Nicole talks about you the way she does.” He leaned over the vat of dough and swore. “Salt,” he yelled. “There’s a five-pound bag of salt in the French bread dough. You think anyone’s going to want that? It’s our batch for the day. The day. ”
    Oh, no. “Can’t you make some more?” she asked in a tiny voice, feeling so awful.
    â€œDo you understand anything about making bread from scratch? What am I asking? Of course you don’t. Get out. Just get out. We can’t afford any more disasters